The Sound of Silence
by FraidyCat
Summary: The numbers have always talked to Charlie. Until they stopped.
1. Give Me A Big Smile!

Title: **The Sounds of Silence**

Author: FraidyCat

Disclaimer: Numb3rs characters respectfully borrowed from CBS et al. No claim of ownership comes from The Cat. Those who seek to bestow money or goods-in-kind in appreciation of these characters should contact CBS, as The Cat will refuse to profit from this story.

Background: Response to a challenge by lilfiftyfour, left at "ThePlotBunnyAdoptionCenter/43403/" fanfiction forum.

Summary: Charlie is faced with finding his place in a world without numbers.

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**Chapter One: "Give Me A Big Smile!"**

The range of emotions was astronomical, and the power they held over him was surprising. Don Alan Eppes was not a man unfamiliar with the more traumatic side of life, after all. Countless times, he had been responsible for informing the next-of-kin that a beloved husband, or parent, or child, or sister -- would never come home again. Even if he _had_ developed a certain necessary detachment, over the years, those carefully constructed walls did nothing to protect him from personal tragedy. His mother's illness and death, the loss of more ex-lovers than he cared to count, even the circus surrounding the exposure of one of his team members as a double -- then triple -- agent; these things should have prepared him, in some way. His chosen career and 30-some-odd years of life should have hardened him. In fact, he would have sworn, before 6 a.m., that it had.

Yes, his career should have hardened him, and his life should have prepared him, but neither of those assumptions proved to be accurate. Instead, he listened to the phone call and all rational thought drained from his head and his heart plummeted to his feet. Standing naked in his bedroom, having heard the phone ringing as he emerged from the shower, he allowed himself to drip on the carpet until the digital bedside alarm rolled over to 6:01. Then he gently returned his cell to its place next to the alarm, and crawled back into bed. He yanked the covers up around his shoulders and willed himself to think.

At 6:06 Don snaked an arm out of his cocoon and snagged the cell phone off the table again. His hands shook a little as he scrolled his contact list. While he was embarrassed on one level that he did not remember Megan's speed dial number, he was enormously gratified on another level that he remembered how to access the contact list. He pushed the "Send" button and rolled over onto his back, blinking at the ceiling.

"Good morning, boss!" The woman was offensively chipper for any hour of this day, and Don squeezed his eyes shut against the cheer.

He spoke with no preamble. "Charlie's on his way to the hospital. The paramedics told Dad it looks like a stroke. I have to go."

"Oh, my God," she started, but Don just kept going.

He said what seemed to make sense. "I'll be late. I'll come in late."

"Don't worry about that," she admonished. "Just call us when you know something, all-right?"

Her words turned into static about that time, and Don found that he didn't really care what she was saying anyway. "Good-bye," he said over the top of her, and flipped the cell shut. He shivered, naked and wet under the blankets, and knew that he would never be warm again.

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He was startled to find his father, bereft and small, in a small waiting room just inside the emergency room entrance. Don had been heading for the receptionist's desk, but he quickly redirected his feet when he recognized Alan. He approached him rapidly and skidded to a halt in front of the chair. "Dad? Why aren't you with Charlie?"

Alan dropped a magazine he had been holding upside-down and bolted out of the chair, nearly bowling Don over. "They took him for a CT". he shared unhappily. "They asked me to wait here because there are too many people crowding them back there." He failed miserably in an attempt at a smile. "Busy night, I guess."

Don frowned and glanced over his shoulder at the receptionist's desk. "They'll come get us when he's back, right?"

Alan sighed, then nodded, rubbing at his forehead. He dropped his hand and looked at Don with guilt-filled eyes. "I thought it was just a migraine," he whispered brokenly.

Don ran his own hand through his short-cropped hair. then indicated the bank of chairs. "Let's sit down," he suggested, barely making it across another foot before his knees gave out. He waited for his father to sit next to him. "What happened?" he asked plaintively. "I know Charlie went home from school early yesterday; Larry mentioned it when he came by to pick up Megan. That's why I didn't call or come by last night; migraines usually take him out for a couple of days."

"I know," agreed Alan. "It didn't seem different from any of his other migraines. He gave himself a shot of Imitrex and asked me to hang a blanket over his window. He refused anything for dinner, but he wasn't sick..." Alan made a noise of choked disbelief. "I was actually thinking he'd caught this one early and it might not be quite so debilitating."

He stopped talking, and Don had to urge him onward again. "So?"

Alan shook himself a little. "I woke up at about 5:30 this morning. I was going downstairs to start the coffee and read the newspaper. I stopped at Charlie's door and peeked through a crack." He shuddered violently. "Dear God, Don, what if I had just left it at that?"

"But you didn't," Don soothed.

Alan didn't seem mollified. "It looked like his eyes were open, so I decided to ask if he was up to some breakfast." He shuddered again, and wrapped his arms around his torso. "It was...surreal. He was lying on his back, staring at the ceiling, not blinking. There was drool running from one side of his mouth."

It was Don's turn to shudder. "That must've been scarier than hell," he commented. "I'd probably still be standing there."

It was apparent how upset Alan was when he didn't take the time to reassure his eldest. "I would too, if I hadn't taken that class," he asserted. When Don looked confused, Alan filled in some blanks. "Last month, remember? The Soup Kitchen asked for volunteers to attend a first aid/CPR class. Many of the homeless who use the kitchen are elderly, and I paid careful attention when they taught us the F.A.S.T. rule."

Recognition crossed Don's face, and he began to nod. "Right, I remember. I was re-certified about six months ago. 'Face, Arm. Speech. Time' -- isn't that it?"

"Yes," Alan affirmed. "I was scared to death, but I asked Charlie to smile. I felt like an idiot, and I had to ask him several times. When he did, the right side didn't work right. Well, I grabbed his cell off the desk right then, and called 9-1-1. While we were waiting he tried to talk..." Alan's voice hitched. "Donnie, it was awful. Grunts. I just sat on the bed and patted his arm, and told him everything was fine. The paramedic asked him to squeeze his fingers, and it didn't look like the right hand even closed all the way."

Don lowered his head and breathed deeply. "So it wasn't a migraine?" he asked when he looked back to Alan.

His father scrambled for his shirt pocket, producing a glossy brochure. "The CT scan will show more, but it could have started as one. The doctor here gave me this information; sometimes young adults with a previously documented history of classic migraines can have a stroke in the middle of an attack!"

Don reached out an unsteady hand to take the brochure. "Ischemic Cerebrovascular Disease", he read before he let his hand fall limp into his lap. His eyes wandered the perimeter of the packed waiting room, where people sat in hushed clumps, or whispered frantically. A few, God bless them, sat alone and silent, watching the clock. Suddenly that silence rang loudly in Don's ears, and he almost reached up his hands to cover them.

Dear God, Charlie couldn't talk? Would Don never hear his brother's raspy voice, or his infectious laughter again? Charlie couldn't smile? Well, at least Don knew how that last one felt.

If Charlie wasn't all right, Don would never smile again, himself.


	2. The Walls Are Closing In

Title: **The Sound of Silence**

Author: FraidyCat

Disclaimer: The disclaimer provided prior to chapter one is all-inclusive, like a really fine vacation.

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**Chapter Two: The Walls Are Closing In**

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Don had never been claustrophobic, but there was a first time for everything. The exam cubicle was crowded already with equipment. Add his father and himself to the mix, and then draw closed the privacy curtain, and Don's skin began to crawl. He sat silently, focused on his brother's sleeping face, and took no comfort from the laxness he saw there. As he stood to pace around the gurney, though, he told himself it was a good thing that Charlie slept. If Don was bordering on claustrophobic hysteria, the atmosphere would not bode well for Charlie.

He tried to distract himself from the hideous beeping of the monitor by searching his memory. When, exactly, had Charlie developed claustrophobic tendencies? Perhaps it was at Princeton. A thirteen-year-old -- and a small one at that -- surrounded by people so much bigger and older than himself; it must have been overwhelming, especially at first. At least in high school he had known his big brother was nearby; even if, Don winced, he didn't necessarily know if Don would be a positive or negative force on any given day. Don shivered a little and executed an about-face at the head of the gurney, still contemplating. Perhaps something had happened at Oxford, during the Susan Barry years. Don didn't know a whole lot about that relationship. He had been so stunned at the picture of his twenty-something kid brother living with that statuesque, nothing-short-of-gorgeous blonde when she had shown up a few years ago, that he hadn't even asked. He jingled the change in his pocket and decided that all he really knew about Charlie's need for space was that by the time he had transferred from Albuquerque, there was a difference. Charlie always sat on the aisle, or as close to it as he could get. If he joined the team for lunch, he let everyone else slide into the booth first. Don had noticed that he never lingered on the elevator, and sometimes took the stairs. Charlie never made a big deal out of his claustrophobic behaviors, but Don was a trained observer. He knew issues when he saw them.

"Huh," he mumbled, preparing to turn again at the foot of Charlie's gurney.

Alan was suddenly, inexplicably, in his path. He hadn't even noticed that his father had stood from his chair. "What?"

Don blushed, embarrassed although he wasn't sure why, and regarded his feet. "I was just thinking about claustrophobia." Alan arched an eyebrow and waited for Don to continue. His eldest lifted his head and glanced at him and then at Charlie. "Charlie's a little claustrophobic. He was never that way as a kid, and I was just wondering when it happened."

Alan followed his gaze and smiled fondly. "I'm not sure. It's not bad. He flies all the time, uses elevators...but I know what you mean. He likes to be on the edge of the crowd, and close to an escape route at all times." He looked back at Don and shrugged. "I guess I never defined it with that word. He came back from Princeton that way -- kind-of set apart -- I thought it was just part of the curse of genius."

And that simply, Don was angry. "Well, he's screwed either way, now," he said roughly. "His genius may be gone, and with no voice he's trapped inside his own head!"

Alan looked shocked and took half a step back. "Don! Son, don't talk that way!"

Don half-turned toward the small gap in the privacy curtain, a growing panic demanding air, but stopped when someone pushed through from the other side. The casually-dressed middle-aged man nodded at Alan and then extended a hand toward Don. "Dr. Varminni," he greeted cheerfully. "Call me Dave." Don glared at him as if the doctor were personally responsible for his brother's condition and eventually the physician moved past him to the head of Charlie's gurney. "The CT scan clearly indicates a stroke," he commented to the room at large. "Left hemisphere of the cerebrum."

"That must control speech," Alan guessed, remembering with a shudder Charlie's inability to talk.

The doctor nodded. "The left side of the brain is responsible for speech, as well as scientific function. Things like reasoning, say, or...the ability to work with numbers."

Alan made a noise of distress and Don growled. "Son of a bitch."

Dr. Varminni looked at them with interest. "Don't tell me he's an accountant, or something."

Don turned his back on the doctor and Alan stepped a little closer so that he could rest one hand on Don's arm and the other on Charlie's blanket-covered foot. "He's a professor of applied mathematics at CalSci. He began Princeton at the age of 13; he's always had a gift with numbers."

The doctor's face clouded and he shook his head, returning his attention to the gurney. "Charlie!" he called loudly. "Charlie, I need you to wake up, now!" Don figured the command must have worked, because the next thing he heard was the doctor asking his brother if he could feel his father's hand on his foot.

Don squeezed his eyes shut and swallowed against bile when Charlie responded. "Uuuhhh. Uuuhhh. Uuuhhh."

The gutteral grunts didn't seem to phase the doctor any. "Good. That's good. Can you tell me how you're feeling, Charlie?"

"Uuuuuuuuuuuuhhhhhhhhhh." This time the sound was more like a long groan.

Dr. Varminni pressed onward. "All-right, son, let's just try some 'yes' and 'no' questions. Do you have a headache?" Don found that he was straining to hear the answer, and reluctantly he turned back around. Charlie was looking right at him, his mouth opening and closing. No sound was coming out at all, and Charlie's eyes slid away to look up at the doctor. The man smiled, and asked another question. "Do you know who is standing at the foot of your bed?"

Charlie's eyes drifted closed. "Uuuuuhhhh."

The doctor changed tactics again. "All-right, Charlie, I want you to move both legs for me. Do it now!" Don tensed at the doctor's tone, but was relieved to see movement under the blanket -- from both legs. "Fine," the doctor praised. He reached out to lower the blanket a little, revealing a pulse-ox monitor on one of Charlie's fingers. "Now, raise both of your arms." There was no movement for a moment and Don felt renewed panic rising in his chest. "You can do one arm at a time," the physician encouraged, and suddenly Don saw Charlie's left hand, the one with the pulse-ox monitor clipped to a finger, rise briefly and then settle to the bed. In a few more agonizingly slow seconds, he raised his right hand all the way to his forehead, which he touched before that hand too collapsed to its original position.

The doctor's smile grew wider. "Excellent. You're telling me that your head hurts?"

"Uuuhhh," Charlie whispered, blinking sluggishly.

Dr. Varminni raised the blanket again and patted Charlie a few times on the shoulder. "I'll put something for that in the IV," he said, almost conversationally. "Jim is going to come in and start one now, and then we'll move you into some of our fine accommodations upstairs." Charlie didn't respond, and the doctor stepped away from the gurney and motioned to Alan and Don. "If you'll come with me," he offered, "we can discuss some things while Charlie's settled into a room."

Don didn't want to leave his brother alone, but knew that he would be in the way, here. Plus, he was desperate to hear something -- anything -- that might shed the light of hope onto this nightmare. Lastly, if there was nothing hopeful to share, he knew he had to be there for his father when he heard those words.

After a last, long look at Charlie, Don turned and followed the others out of the room.

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Dr. David Varminni concentrated on the father, mostly because the other one -- the one introduced as the brother -- made him just a tad nervous. The three of them sat in a family consultation room, and by design it was located off the beaten path; too far from security personnel to risk pushing the wrong buttons on this dude. The way he hunched at a low simmer in his chair, scowling at his knees, which were bouncing up and down at a frantic pace, was not encouraging.

Still, he had to tell the truth.

"To be frank, Mr. Eppes, I'm not sure how much your son will get back. The acute phase of stroke recovery, when comprehension is most impaired, is considered about 1.8 days. Based on your report that you spoke with him a little after midnight before finding him at 5:30 this morning, and taking into consideration his age, we did decide to administer the tPA."

The doctor had been leery of the younger man before, but now his heart went out to him in sympathy when the brother's head shot up, desperate hope flaring in his eyes. "That will fix him, right? That's the stuff you can give to fix them!"

Dr. Varminni responded gently. "You need to understand -- Don, is it?" He went on at Don's affirmative nod. "While it is true that tPA can prevent serious and long-lasting consequences from a stroke or heart attack, it is also true that it is only effective if administered in the first three hours." He shrugged apologetically. "We have no way of knowing exactly when Charlie had the stroke. It could have been moments before your father found him -- or it could have been just after midnight. There is no way to predict the success of the tissue plasminogen activator. I'm really very sorry."

Don's face fell and he looked dangerously close to tears. Alan interrupted, mostly to draw the doctor's attention away from his son. "So what happens now?"

The doctor looked at the chart in his hands and sighed. He hated this part. "Charlie will have further studies with an MRI later today. At some point speech therapy will evaluate his ability to swallow. I'm afraid we can't allow him anything by mouth -- not even ice chips -- until we see how that turns out. If he is unable to swallow, we'll have to discuss...the alternatives. Does your son have an Advanced Directive, or Living Will?"

Don's eyes widened as his own sluggish brain processed what he was hearing. If Charlie couldn't swallow, they'd have to put a tube into his stomach and pour food into him for the rest of his life; however long it was. "He's only 31!" he snapped. "Why would he have one of those?"

Again Alan interrupted. "Actually," he said quietly and a little apologetically, "he does. I decided to do one a few months ago and he saw what I was doing. At first he was very upset, but after he calmed down he agreed that it was a good idea. I brought home an extra form from the Senior Center, and he did one himself. He wants intervention, to a point. His brother and I are to confer with at least two physicians to determine when..."

Alan couldn't go on any longer, both because he was having trouble with the topic and because Don was leaning toward him, yelling. "What?! Why the hell didn't I know any of this?"

Alan felt the tears gathering at the back of his eyes and hurried to speak. "Son, we both knew that you have one already. The Bureau requires all field agents to do that, right? You've told me that you have to update it annually, just like your first aid training or your weapons qualification. In fact, I reminded Charlie of that and it was one reason he decided to make one of his own." Two fat tears rolled down Alan's face. "He said, 'There's no guarantee for any of us, I guess. I could be hit by a car tomorrow.'" He stopped speaking for a moment and took a breath, grabbing a tissue from the box on the low table in front of him and wiping at his face. He turned a stoic and composed face back toward the doctor. "I have it in the safe at home. I can bring it in."

Varminni nodded. "That would be best. We can make a copy and keep it on file." He cleared his throat, waiting until Don had settled back in his chair to speak again. "As I was saying. Charlie will have many tests today, yet still needs as much rest as possible. I know this is difficult to hear, but perhaps you should return home for a few hours. Get the Advanced Directive, and maybe a few things Charlie would like. Comfortable pajamas, perhaps." He tried to end the conversation on an upbeat note. "I have been a doctor long enough to see remarkable things, Mr. Eppes. Your son could exhibit a marked amount of recovery in the next 24 hours."

None of the three men said it, but they all heard the same words: _Then again, Charlie might not recover at all._


	3. Inside the Whirlwind

Title: The Sound of Silence

Title: **The Sound of Silence**

Author: FraidyCat

Disclaimer: I refer you to Chapter One. You'll have a good time, there.

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**Chapter Three: Inside the Whirlwind**

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Fear was absolute, and all-consuming.

Charlie had gone to bed with a headache, and now he was trapped in a nightmare. Every time he awoke, he saw something frightening. His father, crying and speaking incomprehensible gibberish. Asking him to smile. Strangers, asking him more questions, and putting their hands all over him. The ceiling of the house, undulating and changing as he floated somewhere beneath. More strangers, poking at him. A horrible machine they were shoving him into. He knew he would never be able to stand the confining space, and he tried again to protest, to make some sound, any sound, come out of his mouth.

Yet as terrified as he was, he could not stay awake. He opened his mouth to scream, and the next thing he knew his father was tickling his toes. Another stranger was talking to him, and Don was standing with his back to Charlie, tense and unhappy. Why? Charlie tried to remember if he had done something to make Don mad, but the stranger was making his head ache worse. He finally decided the only way to shut the guy up was to do what he asked, so he moved things. Legs, and arms. He tried to answer questions, he really did. Some of the words were in his head, they just wouldn't come out.

Mostly, it was as if someone had spilled a Scrabble® board in his brain. Disconnected letters floated at will, each looking for a mate, few of them making sense. The more he tried to string them together, the more they eluded him and the more frightened he got.

He wanted to cry, but he couldn't stay awake.

He was thirsty when an unrecognized woman offered him a teaspoon full of water, and he drank greedily, wondering why so many others gathered to watch so carefully. Several teaspoons of water later, he was given a small cup. When yet another stranger lined up an x-ray machine, aiming it at his neck, and several people gathered around a monitor to watch the live picture, Charlie understood they were watching him swallow. He was still grunting between sips, trying to form words, and now they were watching him swallow.

For the first time, something began to make sense in his addled brain. _Charlie wasn't sure, but he thought he might have had a stroke._

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Fear was absolute, and all-consuming.

Don drove his father home and trailed behind him throughout the house, like a newly-whelped puppy seeking its mother. He felt entirely and completely disenfranchised, discombobulated, distressed and distended. His brother – his _younger brother_ – had suffered a stroke. It seemed to be the only complete thought he could keep in his head: _Charlie had a stroke, Charlie had a stroke, Charlie had a stroke…_

He was useless to his father, and he knew it. He hovered in the doorway as Alan searched through Charlie's bedroom for a relatively clean pair of sweats, and he couldn't find the energy to help him look, or the words to ask what he should do. He lingered in a corner of the solarium while Alan wrestled the huge seascape painting off the wall and gained access to the safe behind, and he was morose and silent as he wondered if Charlie would ever remember the combination to that safe. _Charlie had a stroke_, he thought, as he followed his father out to the garage, and he didn't even wonder why Alan pocketed a stick of chalk before he led the way back to the house.

He could not find the will to argue when Alan planted him firmly on the couch, announced he was making lunch, and dropped a sheaf of papers on the low coffee table on his way to the kitchen. Later, Don couldn't even remember leaning over to pick one out of the collection. His heart beat loudly and heavily in his ears while he read about lifestyle changes and pharmacological intervention. Anticoagulant and antihypertensive treatments melded into increased right hemisphere activation and the parietal lobe. Aphasia recovery in the subacute stage was blurry and hard to read, until Don realized that he was crying.

He dropped the brochure from nerveless fingers, and the thought continued to echo in his mind: _Charlie had a stroke._

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Fear was absolute and all-consuming.

If it wasn't, he would have dropped to the floor screaming long ago. He knew Don was upset; even in his state of automatic pilot he could tell that. He just couldn't find the words to comfort his oldest son. It was all he could do to give himself one command at a time: Find some sweats; get the Advanced Directive out of the safe; take Charlie a piece of chalk – that was important, even if he couldn't really name why; make some lunch.

In-between the staccato orders, his brain would keep wandering back to the same thought. _My baby had a stroke._ Every time he would argue briefly with the reality. No, strokes are not for babies; they are for old men; I will be the one to have a stroke. No, Charlie does not smoke, or have high blood pressure; he is physically active – just last week he rode his bike to campus three different times; he does not drink to excess and besides, isn't a glass of red wine supposed to be good for you? No, a man did not bury his wife and then watch his child have a stroke; God in His heaven would not do that, would He?

And though he was not the most observant or orthodox believer, still the answer broke his heart, so completely and at such a depth that the truth nearly took his breath away, every time his brain completed the circle. _My baby had a stroke_; and God had let that happen.


	4. Turning of the Tide

Title: **The Sound of Silence**

Author: FraidyCat

Disclaimer: Cats are poor, wayfarin' strangers, passing through this world o' woe with nary a quarter in their claws. A Cat owns only the fur upon its back; even then, it's often bought up by land speculators and flea condos go up faster than you can spit on a mouse.

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**Chapter Four: Turning of the Tide**

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"Oh, dear."

Don looked up from the untouched sandwich and regarded his father at the other end of the table with alarm. "What?"

"Is there a time difference?"

Don's brow furrowed in confusion. "What?"

Alan propped his spoon in the bowl of soup before him and continued a conversation begun in the middle. "She's in Edmonton at that conference; and Larry, too." He sighed, eyes dropping to contemplate the soup. "I can't believe I forgot to call. Charlie's going to kill me."

Don tried his best to keep up; he really did. Somehow, he even managed to dredge up a sliver of pertinent information that years of observatory technique had quietly gathered and filed for him, even without a direct order. "Larry came by the office to take Megan to an early dinner before he flew to Alberta last night," he remembered. "Some physics thing?"

Alan gave up on the soup and pushed the bowl away as he looked up and nodded. "American Association of Physics Teachers. It's an annual meeting, and this year Larry will be receiving the Mil…some award. A medal, and money. It's a big deal, in recognition of his years of teaching physics. Charlie has a ticket to fly up Saturday and go to the banquet that night with them."

Don frowned, lost again. "Them?"

Alan stood, looking at his watch. "Millie and Amita are at the conference as well." He looked at Don again sharply. "Oh, shit. Charlie's supposed to cover Amita's summer session class tomorrow morning. Who the hell should I call? Everybody I know is in Canada!"

Don was exceedingly grateful to be seated. He had heard his father swear exactly twice before in his life, and the third time was not evoking good memories. He rubbed his forehead, then moved his napkin to cover his food. "What about that Ray-Ray guy?"

Alan shook his head. "Not teaching this summer. I believe by now he should be around Boulder, Colorado; he took his family on a road trip." Alan stood noisily, scrapping his chair across the floor. "I'll just call Millie's number and talk to whoever answers." He shook his head again as he passed Don, headed for the telephone mounted on the wall. "I really feel badly about this. I should have called Amita first thing."

Don bristled, standing himself and perching on the corner of the table to watch his father. He crossed his arms over his chest and huffed. "No, you should have called _me_ first thing."

Alan turned in surprise before he reached the phone. "I did! I don't know if you understand just how serious those two have become, Donnie. You know they're talking about Amita moving in here. She's been helping him 'green' the house even more, now that Ray-Ray got the ball rolling with those solar panels in the roof. She was so exited when she found out one of the workshops at the conference dealt with that very topic!"

Don spoke petulantly, feeling like a child at the sound of his own voice. "I know they're serious, Dad. I guess I'm not ready to vacate my position as the first call, yet."

Alan smiled at his son fondly. "Are you kidding? You'll always be my first call, Don. I can't tell you what it means to me that you're so close now, and that call will bring you to us quickly."

Don straightened his spine and shrugged, a tad embarrassed. "You could have called me in Albuquerque, too."

Alan arched an eyebrow. "I wasn't referring to mileage, son -- although your closer proximity these days is a definite improvement. I was trying to say that I'm proud of you boys. You're closer than I have ever seen you -- and I know that doesn't just happen. I appreciate that you've both made your relationship a priority." He smiled again, and even managed a small snicker. "I never thought you'd be jealous of Amita."

Don reddened furiously and turned on his heel to storm into the living room. "Make your calls," he snarled.

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While Alan had handled the CalSci crowd, Don had considered calling Megan. He finally decided he didn't have enough information; he would wait, before he forced himself to say words he was not sure he could. It was all arranged by the time they returned to the hospital at 4.

Amita had procured a seat the next flight she could, which, to her disappointment, wasn't until the next morning. Millie had wanted to come with her, but Alan had persuaded her to stay at the conference. "Charlie's very proud of Larry," he argued. "It will make him feel terrible if no-one is there to see him get the award. Worse, Larry could come home early himself, with no-one there to talk him down. I think I have him convinced that Charlie is not in any immediate danger and he should wait until Sunday, after the banquet. But it was a tough sell."

Millie harumphed and demanded a compromise. "You will phone me at six-hour intervals," she demanded. "More often if something...acute...happens. I will arrange for the presentation to be filmed, and Charlie can watch it with Amita, when he is feeling better. Yes?"

Alan smiled and swallowed around the lump in his throat, hoping against hope that Charlie would indeed feel better -- and sooner rather than later. "Yes," he finally confirmed in a shaky voice. "I'm sure he will appreciate that."

The tiny spark of hope Millie had planted was fanned into a flame when he and Don paused at the nurse's station, directly outside Charlie's room, to speak with his caregiver. The RN regarded a chart in her hands and looked up, smiling. "He passed the swallow test with flying colors," she announced. "That's very good news. He also seems alert and aware when he is awake -- although he will sleep quite a bit for quite a while. The stroke was a major drain on his body, and it needs to recuperate."

"What about...talking?" Don asked nervously, "or walking?"

The nurse closed the chart and hugged it to her chest. "Charlie is making significant progress with his speech," she noted. "Remember, this will likely continue during this first 24 hours following the incident. We haven't had him out of bed yet, but all extremities are moving well. Right now there is a little right-sided weakness; but that is to be expected."

Don and Alan exchanged a relieved smile. Charlie could swallow; it was ridiculous the relief that came with that knowledge. There would be no surgical procedures to implant any tubes directly in his stomach! Better yet -- or at least as good -- he was described as "alert". Surely there wasn't some hidden meaning behind that word. "Alert" had to mean that Charlie knew who he was, where he was, why he was... Maybe the Eppes family would luck into a miracle.

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Don's emotions had rolled from one extreme to the other all day, and he was beginning to get a headache himself.

Charlie's attempts at words, usually pathetically inadequate, didn't seem to bother Alan, any. Don knew that he should try to hold onto his own optimisim. It had not yet been 12 hours since the stroke, and much more could happen by tomorrow morning. Still, it broke his heart, the way Charlie said "ok" to everything. It also worried him a little, because Charlie said "ok" to things that Don didn't really think were "ok" with him. When his father told him that Amita was skipping the conference and coming home, for example; Charlie said "ok" to that. Was it because that was one of the few words he seemed to have mastery over, or had his personality changed? Typically, Charlie would argue that there was no need for anyone to change their plans and come rushing home on his account, Don was sure of it. Of course, it was always possible that having a stroke at 31 had scared him as badly as it was scaring everyone else. That was not a pleasant thought, either.

So Alan puttered around the room, acting completely and unbelievably _normal_, and Don sat quietly in the corner, smiling every time Charlie looked at him. His father talked about the stroke as if it was common knowledge, and Charlie said "ok" at more-or-less appropriate intervals.

"We'll do some research about diet," Alan said. "Maybe we can make an impact on this ischemic thing that way. I mean, the drugs are all well and good, but certainly good nutrition plays a part in everything."

"Ok," Charlie answered, and suddenly came up with a second word. Unfortunately, it wasn't quite the right one. "Cheese."

Alan stopped fiddling with the blinds on the windows and approached the bed, smiling. "Would you like some cheese? A grilled cheese for dinner? Or maybe..."

"NO!," Charlie had practically shouted, and Alan had backed away after a quick look at Don.

"All right," he said. "Well. You let me know when you get hungry."

"Ok," Charlie had answered, mellow again.

Alan shrugged and picked up the pitcher of water on the bedside table. He peered inside as if he could tell how fresh it was that way. "The nurse tells me PT will have you up first thing in the morning," he stated, replacing the pitcher on the table.

"Ok?" Charlie asked, looking at the small pump attached to the end of his bed. Inflatable sleeves were encasing both legs, and the pump gurgled softly as it constantly inflated and deflated the devices.

Alan followed his gaze. "I'm sure they'll take those off tomorrow," he guessed.

"Ok," Charlie yawned.

"Cheesecake!" Alan suddenly shouted, and Don wondered if his father was having a stroke too until he figured out Alan was still trying to come up with an explanation for Charlie's earlier comment. "Stan was in this hospital just last month, and when I came to visit I discovered that the cafeteria actually has cheesecake-flavored ice cream. Strawberry-cheesecake. I could ask them to make you a nice milkshake, would you like that?"

Charlie made a face of disgust. "Hot," he protested, and Don's heart thudded once more. What kind of sense did that make?

"Hot?" Alan repeated, and Charlie sighed and closed his eyes.

Alan looked a little disconcerted for the first time since they had come back from the hospital. "I'm sorry," he apologized. "You can tell me tomorrow."

"Ok," Charlie agreed, yawning again, and then he was asleep.

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Don was in the room alone when his brother awoke around 5:30. Alan had scored an appointment with one of the hospital's nutritionists, and was pursuing his theory of diet somewhere on the fourth floor. Charlie's eyes wandered to Don, who had just stood to stretch his legs, and he smiled. Don smiled back. "Hey," he greeted, as a food cart rattled by in the corridor.

Charlie gestured toward... the foot of the bed, maybe. Don tried to follow his hands and his eyes took in the pump. "Yeah. The pump is still hooked up."

"No," Charlie shook his head, and gestured again. This time he seemed to be pointing at the doorway. Don looked in that direction and noted that the constant activity at the nurse's station raged on.

Didn't these people ever actually go into a patient's room? He looked back at Charlie. "Do you want the nurse?" he guessed. He took a half-step, then remembered the food cart that had rolled by. "Or dinner, maybe?"

"No," Charlie responded, letting his hand fall to his stomach. "NO!", he repeated, and Don could hear the frustration in his voice.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, repeating his father's earlier words.

"Uuuuhh," Charlie grunted in exasperation, chilling Don to the core as he listened to that sound again. The hand came up, trailing its IV line, and the youngest Eppes made a gargantuan effort. "On," he pleaded, gesturing again.

Don wished his father was there. He finally decided to get the nurse whether Charlie wanted her or not; maybe she could interpret. He turned more fully to the door, and his gaze fell on the light switch just to the right of it. He glanced back at Charlie, who was moving his arm, now. Gesturing at the door, then arcing up toward the ceiling. Don looked up, and saw the florescent light over the bed, and a bulb went off in his head at last. "The light!" he exclaimed, feeling almost as if he was playing a life-or-death game of charades. "You want me to turn the light on?"

Charlie's arm collapsed to his stomach again, and he smiled widely. "Yes!" he crowed. "Yes!"

And Don was happy, rushing to the switch on the wall, at the same time as he was sad. Charlie was trapped. His brother was trapped, and Don couldn't do a thing about it.

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Around 9, Don finally arrived back at his apartment. He and his father had returned to the Craftsman about 7, where Don had left his SUV. He played at eating a bowl of soup, mostly to make his father happy. He still had no appetite, but Alan had enough to worry about without him adding to the burden. He had taken the long way home, driving aimlessly around the city for a while and forcing himself to breathe deeply. He had just settled on the couch, remote in hand, when his cell rang.

Looking at the unfamiliar number, Don answered with dread. Had Charlie taken a turn for the worse? "Don Eppes," he intoned reluctantly.

"Hi," said Charlie, and Don's mouth gaped open. This time he was the one who could not find any words. "So I woke up from a little nap kind-of hungry, and I called the nurse to ask if the cafeteria was still serving food," Charlie went on in a complete sentence, not stumbling at all. "She brought me a menu and I was debating the alternatives when I figured out I was talking. I got my speech back, Don."

Tears sprang to Don's eyes and he rose off the couch to stand in his dark living room. He smiled into the cell. "My God, that's great Charlie! That's good news!"

"Yeah," Charlie answered, trying for nonchalant but falling a little shy. "Yeah. I wanted to thank you for turning on the light, and I wondered if you could tell Dad something for me?"

"Of course," Don agreed.

"Lasagna," came the immediate reply. "When I said 'cheese', before, I was trying to come up with 'lasagna'. Regardless of what he finds out about diet, I'm not giving up his lasagna." Don laughed, but still heard a yawn before Charlie went on. "Really tired, or I'd call him. Good-night, Donnie."

Don squeezed the phone tightly and grinned like an idiot. "Good-night, Bro," he answered. "I'll see you tomorrow. I love you."

"You too," Charlie responded a little shyly. "See you tomorrow."

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End, Chapter 4

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_Preemptive Strike A/N: Before you waste your review telling me this could not happen, I swear on a stack of cats that it did. When my father had a stroke last week, he went from "ok" to full-out sentences in three hours._


	5. 2 Plus 2 Equals 3

Title: **The Sound of Silence**

Author: FraidyCat

Disclaimer: In truth, how can anyone "own" another person? I say to you that these boys are real, and they own themselves. Yet the end result remains the same: I hold no title, I make no profit, and I respect all who do.

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**Chapter Five: 2 + 2 Equals 3**

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Don had called his father the night before, with Charlie's remarkable news. It had been all he could do to persuade the man not to drive back to the hospital. "He practically fell asleep on the phone," he argued. "He would have called you, too, but he was tired." He then distracted Alan with the cheese/lasagna story, and before their own phone call ended he could hear the rattling of pots and pans, and the slamming of cupboards. Shaking his head and smiling, he knew his father was making lasagna all night; and he didn't blame him a bit.

His next call was to Megan. As he knew she would be, she was very happy to hear that Charlie was doing so well. She promised to update Larry and then rushed a little nervously into a proposal. "So here's the thing," she started. "A.D. Wright said you shouldn't hesitate to take some PTO; this is why it's there. He also said to remind you of the federal family leave act, but it sounds like Charlie is doing really well, so you might not need that."

Don vacillated between relief and resentment. "You talked to Wright?"

Megan launched into full defense mode. "He came through the bullpen and asked where you were; I had to tell him something! I guess it didn't occur to me that this was supposed to be some kind of secret. Are you embarrassed that your brother had a stroke?"

Don growled and almost hung up on her. "Good God, no, Reeves! I'm not embarrassed about needing some PTO to meet with a loan officer at a bank, either, but it's still my story to share."

As he had known it would, that shut her up; but only for a moment. "What? Look, I'm sorry if I stepped on your toes."

He tried to maintain a fume, but he was still too happy about Charlie. "I decided to buy one of those condos Dad was looking at last year," he admitted gruffly. "The market is so ripe right now…why did Wright come by the bullpen?"

He could hear the smile in Megan's voice – she knew he was faking it. "That's great, Don. If your Dad ever decides to go through with it, you'll be neighbors! He wanted to talk to you about assigning the team to work with Garibaldi this week; he's about to take down that gun-running op."

"My Dad says Amita might be moving into the house, so we could end up neighbors sooner than you think. Man, Garibaldi's been working that case for almost six months!"

"Seven," Megan corrected. "His man inside said it's going down this week. Since David is on vacation and you were out, Wright assigned Colby and I to his team for the rest of the week." A hint of a tease entered her voice. "You come back now, you'll just discombobulate everything and force a lot of people to do a lot of paperwork. In triplicate." Don snorted and she planted a final jab. "Perhaps you and your father should get a three- or four-bedroom place together. Pool your resources."

"Right," Don agreed, half-seriously. "Dad's cooking whenever I want it; that's actually pretty tempting. Listen," he continued, his voice growing serious, "you guys watch each other's backs on this. Don't wait for Garibaldi's team to do it; you and Colby have each other."

"Not a problem," she assured him. "So what do I tell Wright?"

He sighed. She'd beaten him again. "Yeah. I'll be off on PTO the rest of the week." A glint sparked in his eye. "Maybe I'll use Charlie's ticket and go to Larry's award banquet in Edmonton."

"I hate you," she murmured after a moment of silence.

He laughed joyfully. "If it makes you feel any better, Millie promised Dad to have it all filmed, so Charlie can watch later. I'm pretty tight with the guy; I might be able to get you a copy."

"I love you," she responded, and Don laughed again. "Seriously, keep me updated on Charlie, okay? Give him my love."

Don made a face and shook his head. "I can do one of those things," he responded. "I'll let you guess which one."

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It was a relieved duo that strode down the hospital corridor the next morning. Charlie could swallow; Charlie could talk; all was right with the world.

When Alan and Don turned into the open door of his room, it was even better to see him awake, sitting in the large chair next to the bed. He beamed up at them. "Hi! I went for a walk; and I had oatmeal; and they took those things off my legs, at least for awhile; and does my hair look all-right?"

Both men chuckled indulgently as they looked around for seats in the crowded room. Don didn't know about Alan, but he knew he was relieved to hear his brother's run-on sentence. He'd laid awake half the night afraid that the regained speech the night before had been some kind of fluke. And now he had been walking, too! Don couldn't seem to wipe the smile off his face as he perched gingerly on the edge of the bed. "Let me get this straight," he teased, looking at his watch. "Exactly 26 hours ago you had a stroke, and what you're worried about the most is your hair?"

Alan covered a shudder with a laugh and followed Don to the bed. "Shove over," he ordered, and Don created a space for him to sit.

Charlie frowned at them, looking so serious that Don got a little worried. When his brother spoke, he thought it might be a little soon for teasing. "You said Amita is coming, right? Did I not understand that?"

Don leaned over to squeeze Charlie's forearm, careful of the IV still in his hand. "No, you understood right, Chuck. Dad's leaving in about half-an-hour to pick her up at the airport." He smiled fondly as he straightened his spine. "Something tells me she won't be too concerned about your hair, Buddy."

Charlie blushed, and Alan stood again, turning for the small closet in the corner of the room. "I brought some things yesterday," he remembered. "I see you're wearing the sweats, but I'm sure I put one of those pick things you use in there…." He opened the door and leaned to pick up a bag, continuing to narrate as he rummaged through it. "You do have a bit of 'bed-head' going there."

"Good morning." Alan stopped rummaging and looked to the door. Dr. Ben Lincarli, a neurologist he had met the day before, stood there smiling at Charlie. "I understand you were dragging the physical therapy tech all over the hospital this morning."

Charlie smiled shyly. "It was just so nice to get out of bed."

The doctor nodded, and came farther into the room. Alan turned a little in his corner so he could watch him better. "I'm sure it was," the physician said, checking the chart in his hands. "Frankly, it's a welcome surprise to be having an actual conversation with you this morning, as well!"

Charlie tilted his head a little and regarded the man seriously. "I feel fine," he said. "I mean, I'm tired. I keep dropping off…but are you sure I had a stroke?"

The doctor returned his demeanor. "Absolutely. Both the MRI and the CT scan confirm that. As strokes go, Charlie, this seems to have been a very mild one. Plus, your father must have found you soon after it happened; the tPA you were administered in the ER did its job."

Charlie was silent, obviously digesting that, and Don spoke up. "That's amazing stuff," he observed, offering the doctor his hand. "I'm Don, Charlie's brother."

Alan made a noise of distress from his corner. "Forgive me, I forgot you two hadn't met," he began as Dr. Lincarli shook Don's hand. "Son, this is Dr. Lincarli, a neurologist here in the hospital."

Don shot the man a genuine smile. "Thank-you for all you've done for my brother."

The doctor returned his smile and looked again at Charlie. "I think your brother has done most of the work," he answered. "Charlie, I know you're feeling better, but I'd like to keep you one more night. We'll DC the IV a little later today, and PT would like to see you one more time to set up an outpatient schedule of visits." After Charlie nodded, he continued. "As I said before, this was a small stroke. However, your history of migraines and the results of the MRI do indicate the presence of ischemic cerbrovascular disease. You'll need to work with your primary care physician to address this matter on an extremely proactive level. Plus, the tiredness is to be expected; even a small stroke is a major shock to the body."

"I understand," Charlie said quietly. "What about work?"

A shadow crossed the doctor's face; something Don did not miss, and he tensed slightly. "You can discuss that with your PCP," Dr. Lincarli answered. "You should see him Thursday or Friday, if you can."

"I'll call and set up an appointment," Alan interrupted, then he looked quickly at Charlie. "Do you want me to do that?"

Charlie just nodded, and the doctor started talking again. "Charlie, I have some pretty stupid questions, but I'd like for you to humor me. I've been reading some research conducted by colleagues at MIT and France, and there's something I'd like to check out."

"Okay," Charlie agreed, and Don shivered. He'd have to ask Charlie to expunge that word from his vocabulary.

The doctor grinned. "I'm aware of your profession, but please. Recite the basic multiplication table. 1 through 10."

Charlie grinned at his brother and opened his mouth. "One times one is 1. Two times two equals 4. Three times three is 9. Four times four is 16. Five times five, 25. Six times six, 36." He paused and took a breath. "Seven times seven equals 49, and eight times eight is 64. Nine times nine is 81, and ten times ten equals 100." He stopped and covered a yawn with his hand.

"Excellent," said Dr. Lincarli, making a note in his chart. Looking up in time to catch the end of Charlie's yawn, he hurried on. "This won't take but a moment more. Tell me, what is 2 + 2?"

Charlie rolled his eyes, leaning his head back against the chair. He opened his mouth again – but this time nothing came out. After a moment of stunned silence he lifted his head and regarded the neurologist with wide, frightened eyes. "I don't know," he whispered. At first Don thought he was making a bad joke, but the look on his brother's face convinced him otherwise. He could sense his father coming toward them out of the corner, and he turned his head to exchange a look with him before he looked at the doctor, who did not seem at all surprised.

"All-right," the physician said mildly. "Remember, your recovery is not complete yet. Don't expect too much too soon. I'm going to ask you now which number you prefer as an answer to that question. Do you like 3, or 9?"

Charlie was losing color, and frowning. He shot a look at Don, then looked back at the doctor. His hand crept up to tug at a wayward curl. "I…3," he finally decided. "I like 3. Is it 3?"

Dr. Lincarli closed his chart and came closer to Charlie's chair, then actually sat on the floor in front of it, legs crossed, his posture casual. Don found himself slipping to the floor himself, and copying his actions, and Alan settled onto the bed again. All they lacked was a campfire and a few marshmallows, Don thought, as he reached up and rested a hand on Charlie's sweat-covered knee.

"The theory," began the doctor, "is that there are at least two circuits in the brain for representing a number. One is language based, and stores tables of exact arithmetic knowledge, like the multiplication tables. Since you have regained your speech, Charlie, you have also regained this knowledge."

Charlie's hand had crept near Don's but was not touching it yet. "And the other?"

"Obviously, independent of language," answered the doctor. "It is sometimes referred to as the 'number line', used to approximate and manipulate quantities. Our brains solve mathematical questions in remarkably different ways."

"The answer is not '3', is it?" asked Charlie, his voice growing a little frantic. The fingers of his hand clawed at Don's, and Don scooted a little closer so that he could grab hold. "It was '9', then?"

Dr. Lincarli kept his voice soft, and even. "Charlie, your progress has been remarkable, but this is still considered the acute phase of stroke recovery, when comprehension is the most impaired. During the subacute stage, we can expect the right hemisphere of the brain to 'take over' some of the tasks previously carried out by the left hemisphere. Even more remarkable, as the left hemisphere heals, there will be another shift as it reclaims its territory. The brain is fascinating. The more we learn about it, the more we understand that we do not know."

Don could feel Charlie's fingers sweaty and trembling in his own, and for a long time there was only silence as they sat, each encapsulated in his own reaction.

_I was sure it was 3_, Charlie thought, _and what is 7 minus 2?..._

_Charlie without numbers is worse than Charlie without words_, Don thought. _Numbers have always __been__ his words…_

_Does she love him enough?,_ Alan wondered. _Will he lose __both__ of the loves of his life?_

_They were so close_, Dr. Lincarli sighed. _The line between comedy and tragedy, between success and failure; it's no wider than the distance between 3, and 4._

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End, Chapter 5


	6. After Math

Title: **The Sound of Silence**

Author: FraidyCat

Disclaimer: Please contact your Congressman, and tell him how grateful you are for CBS, Cheryl Heuton and Nick Falacci.

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**Chapter Six: After Math**

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Alan had called Amita the evening before, after he had talked to Don. The chokehold of fear that had been constricting her heart since his first call had lessened considerably when she heard that Charlie was talking. She found that she was even more frantic to see him, to reassure herself that he would be all right, and she never considered not going back to L.A. Physics was wonderful. She loved it, and she loved teaching, and she hoped to be thoroughly entrenched in both for quite some time to come.

But Charlie was everything.

She regretted that she had moved so slowly in the relationship. Yes, Charlie was moving slowly as well, but that only meant that she needed to step it up; he just lacked some encouragement. She regretted that she had let her parents' prejudice cloud her judgment. She had made it clear to Charlie that she did not share their view that as a non-Indian, he was not right for her. At least she hoped she had. She hoped that her unwillingness to hurt her parents hadn't shown itself as a willingness to accept their ideas.

She knew now that if he would still have her, she was moving in next week. She loved that Alan was such an important part of his life, and she would be careful to make sure that it stayed that way. She did not want to displace him from the home he had loved for years. It had been difficult for him to watch them make changes. Solar panels in the roof, alternative energy sources, replacing windows and floor coverings…she would try hard to make him understand that he was still welcome in the house; in their lives, and not one of the things they intended to replace. Charlie sometimes made jokes about living with his father, but she knew his heart; she knew that Alan's happiness was important to him.

And Don would be welcome there, always. He could come alone, or with Liz, or with Robin, or with an emu for all she cared. As long as he continued to make his presence felt. Charlie loved spending time with his big brother – to the extent that he had made himself an FBI consultant; at first an uninvited one, now an invaluable one. Amita did not want to take away any of the things Charlie loved. She just wanted to be one of them.

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His demeanor was somewhat reserved when he met her at the baggage carousel, and it frightened her. "Alan," she had begged after a quick hug, "did something happen? Is Charlie worse?"

He smiled in an expression that did not travel as far as his eyes and held onto her hand. Glancing at the carousel, which was not disgorging luggage from the flight yet, he pulled her toward a bench at the edge of the room. "Let's sit down and talk," he suggested, and her knees went weak.

She didn't know how her legs supported her all the way to the bench. She only knew that after the first few steps, her mind was made up. Whatever it was – if he couldn't walk, or he'd lost his words again, or doctors had decided teaching was too much stress – whatever it was, she would hold her chin high and she would take it.

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Not that she had been expecting _that_.

All the way to the hospital, she tried to wrap her own rather impressive mind around it. As a math-and-sciences nerd in high school, she had run into a study Charles Eppes had published when he was still at Princeton. It had been eye-opening, and she had printed off a copy at the public library and taken it back to school, where she discussed the theroms excitedly with her math teacher.

The woman had been thrilled to find a student so in love with math that she went to the public library when the one at school was closed, and she went home and did some research of her own on the infant Internet. She brought Amita the names of two more papers the young now-Dr. Eppes had published, one in conjunction with a Princeton physics professor named Dr. Larry Fleinhardt. Better yet, she had ordered Dr. Eppes' first book; and best, she had found out that both Drs. Eppes and Fleinhardt were now in California, teaching at CalSci University.

Amita had determined to be accepted there, especially after she began reading some of Dr. Fleinhardt's work also. By the time she was a senior in high school, she couldn't decide whether to major in one of the mathematics fields, or physics. So, once matriculated at CalSci, she pulled a double major. Her mind exploded at the university. Not many students chose CalSci unless they were serious about the sciences, and the entire faculty seemed as gifted as Eppes and Fleinhardt. She took several of their courses, eventually losing her girlhood awe but gaining in understanding and respect. Still, when she started going after her first Master's in applied mathematics, she almost requested a different advisor when she was assigned to Dr. Charles Eppes. She was afraid the picture she had constructed over all those years would get in the way of the work; and she had long ago reached the point where the work was more important than anything else.

Yet the man was brilliant, and as an added bonus seemed very tight with Dr. Fleinhardt; it would be almost like getting two advisors, and would help her decide whether or not to continue in physics as well. So in the end, she accepted the assignment and was never sorry she had.

The attraction between herself and the young professor started as a spark that was never flamed into fire by either of them as long as he was her advisor. They had talked about it once after she got her first doctorate and they started dating, though, and they had both known it was there. Now, the Charles Eppes she read about in high school and the Charles Eppes she had come to love had very little in common. There was so much more to him than math. She had determined awhile into the advisor relationship that it was sort-of like staring into an eclipse. The math was so overwhelming, the genius so blinding, that it pulled all of your focus unless you were very careful.

All of that and more cascaded through her head on the trip to the hospital, and she began to feel the fear as they echoed through the final corridor and approached his room. Charlie was more than math, yes; but the numbers were an integral part of the combination. Who would he become without them?

As she turned into the door, her low-heeled shoes clicking on the linoleum, he looked up from his fetal position on the bed and saw her. His eyes shone bright with unshed tears. Don was in the corner, jammed into a folding chair he had found in the closet, but she didn't even acknowledge him.

Instead, she took four steps across the room and lowered the rail of the hospital bed, then sat on the edge, mindful of the IV stand. She reached out a hand and laid it on the three-day stubble on his cheek, then moved it so it ran through his hair. She pulled her hand back into her lap and smiled. "You could use a shampoo," she declared. "I'll give you one when we get you home in the morning."

He blinked and the brightness in his eyes dimmed a little. The corner of his mouth lifted in a grin. "You understand that I have regained all of my physical capabilities." He waggled his eyebrows and she blushed, suddenly remembering that Alan and Don were in the room.

"Listen," she changed the subject, "I'm on top of this, all right? I'm going to talk to that neurologist and get a copy of that study, and we'll figure this out. I don't want you to worry about anything."

He snorted and closed his eyes. "I've been trying to figure out what kind of job I can get. At first I thought fast food; they have those registers set up with pictures of the items, so the kids don't have to know numbers at all. But then I remembered that Dad always gets a 10 percent senior citizen discount, and I don't think they have different keys for that. I think I'd actually have to know how to compute 10 percent, so that's out."

"Charlie," Don interrupted. "Knock it off. You got your words back, you just have to wait a little longer for the numbers."

Amita nodded. "I agree," she concurred. "It's much too soon to book you an appointment in the CalSci Career Testing Center."

Alan smiled and motioned to Don. "Son, walk to the cafeteria with me. We can bring some decent lunch up for everyone." He strove for normalcy and teased his youngest. "You're still certain you don't want a strawberry-cheesecake milkshake?"

Charlie grimaced and looked over Amita's shoulder in time to catch Alan's wink. "I'll pass on that," he answered drily.

"Lime gelatin, then," Alan answered, and Charlie made another face.

"It's a good thing you're taking Don with you," he muttered.

His brother smiled as he edged past the bed. "Got it handled," he assured them. "We'll be back soon."

Amita waited until their footsteps had faded in the hall before she leaned over and kissed Charlie chastely. Straightening her spine, she smiled. "I love you," she said.

To her dismay, his face clouded. "I hope so," was certainly not the answer she had been expecting.

She forged ahead. "Charlie, I'm calling a moving company tomorrow. Or, I can probably find some students who need to supplement their incomes a little."

His brow furrowed. "Are you moving? Were you at the conference long enough to get a better offer?"

She smiled, and lifted his IV-free hand to her lap. "Silly. I want to move into the Craftsman. With you." He was silent for so long that she rushed into half-formed plans. "Your father will stay too, of course. There's room for all of us, and we'll be careful to make sure he still feels like it's his home. And, and…."

"No," Charlie said so quietly she almost missed it.

Almost, but not quite. "Wh..what?"

He squeezed her hand in her lap and then drew his away, drawing it up to his chest, almost as if his heart hurt. "No," he repeated. "Not this way. I won't have you moving in because you feel sorry for me."

Amita recoiled as if she had been slapped. "That's not…Charlie, I feel sorry for _me_. My God, you could have died. You could still be lying here now unable to communicate at all. I'm sorry that I've wasted so much time, because there's no guarantee there will be a tomorrow, for any of us!"

Charlie closed his eyes, and this time a lone tear did escape and roll down his stubbled cheek. "There's no guarantee you will love whoever I turn out to be, either," he responded, the length and the content of the sentence exhausting him. "That's not fair to you." He opened his eyes and attempted a smile, failing miserably. "All bets are off until we…figure out who I am now."

Her feelings had been hurt when he refused to let her move in, but now she was growing terrified. "Charlie, you can't cut me out of this equation. That's not your job to do."

A bitter laugh tore from his throat. "Equation. We can't even break up without bringing math into the conversation."

Amita stood abruptly. "We are _not_ breaking up," she protested. "I will not allow it. If you're not ready for me to move in right now, I can understand that. But I am _not_ leaving. I am not." Charlie had attempted to open his eyes again, but they never got past half-mast, and now he was obviously fighting to keep them that far open. She leaned over again and kissed him on the cheek. "You get some sleep," she said softly. "I'll still be here when you wake up."


	7. Homecoming

Title: **The Sound of Silence**

Author: FraidyCat

Disclaimer: I own the threadbare robe that I wear, and the graying hair on my head, and nothing else. You are encouraged to let the cat out. I mean, to support financially those who truly own these fine, strapping young men and their friends.

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**Chapter Seven: Homecoming**

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Don vacillated between grateful relief and mind-numbing terror; there did not seem to be a lot of ground in-between the two.

He went along on Charlie's Tuesday afternoon walk with the physical therapist tech, and he was...proud. Impressed. The man has suffered a stroke two days before, and now he was training for a marathon. There were no aluminum walkers, no crutches, no canes; if anything, the tech had to ask him repeatedly to slow down. Charlie carried on simultaneous conversations with Don, the PT tech, and Amita, who they were walking to the fifth floor office of Dr. Lincarli; she was making good on her promise to gather as much information as she could. The only thing Don found a little unusual about that was that Charlie was not going with her. It made him a little nervous, but he finally decided that maybe Charlie had heard enough medspeak for a while, and let it go. If his brother was content to let Dad chase down dieticians and send Amita to beard the lion in its den, that was fine with Don.

Charlie still slept a lot, sometimes dropping off in the middle of a sentence, and the terror would push at the edges of the relief, then. Don was always afraid that when he woke up, Charlie wouldn't be able to talk anymore, or would have lost his ability to walk. They all tried very hard not to talk about the elephant in the living room -- Charlie's missing numbers -- but as they sat in the room on Wednesday morning, awaiting release papers, Charlie started a conversation that would almost kill them all.

He had just awoken from a brief nap in the large chair, so he felt pretty good. Amita was covering her own class, since she was back in the area, but Alan and Don were both perched on the edge of the bed. Neither one had wanted to sit out this trip; both had spent too many hours dreading the possibility of its never happening. Charlie picked at the knee of the jeans Alan had brought him to wear home. "When I see Dr. Martin tomorrow afternoon, I'm going to ask if I can go ahead and fly up to Edmonton Saturday," he announced, and Alan jumped off the edge of the bed and started pacing.

"Don't be ridiculous," he fumed, fear disguising itself as anger. Far from allowing Charlie to fly away, he was still in the _'how much for a roll of shrink-wrap'_ stage. "Larry doesn't want you endangering your health just to eat rubber chicken and listen to a speech you helped write!"

Charlie looked up, his face a study of stubbornness and affront. "Look, I know I'm not 100 percent, yet. I could change the flight, so instead of going in the afternoon I could go in the morning. That way there would be time for a long nap before the banquet." Alan threw his hands in the air and turned his back, and Charlie continued to present his case. "I'm sure Amita would go with me, so I wouldn't be alone."

Alan whirled around again. "Absolutely not. The air pressure could...I don't know, do something, and shoot a blod clot to your brain..."

Don chose that moment to enter the fray and forever-after regretted it. "Besides," he interjected, "that's a lot of money. Not only would you have to buy a last-minute ticket for Amita, you'd have to change your own. There's a penalty for that, you know. You could end up spending the 400.00 you're already out two or three more times! Come on Charlie," he wheedled, "add it up!"

Utter silence descended upon the room.

Alan stopped pacing and stared aghast at Don, who swore under his breath and watched the blood drain from Charlie's face. "I'm sorry," he started, but Charlie stopped him with a growl.

"I can't seem to do that, you thoughtless son of a bitch," his brother glared at him. "How much is 400.00, plus 400.00 more, plus 400.00 more?"

Don couldn't believe he could still talk around the foot lodged firmly in his mouth, but he managed. "It's three times 400," he mumbled, and Alan groaned and dropped his head to study his shoes.

Surprisingly, that answer seemed to be exactly what Charlie wanted. "Oh," he responded, all trace of bitterness gone. "1,200.00, then." He looked uncertainly between Don and Alan. "Do I have that much?"

Alan lifted his head and shot a murderous look at Don before he pulled together a tight grin for Charlie. "Yes, I'm certain that you do. But I'm not concerned about the money. At least do as you suggested, and discuss it with Dr. Martin."

Charlie seemed to think for a moment and then deflated like a balloon. "Never mind," he said morosely. "I probably need to save my money. Millie's going to have to fire me."

Don thought he couldn't feel any worse, but he kept finding new lows the rest of the day. Charlie was silent and detached. Although the trip home had obviously exhausted him, still he roamed the Craftsman like a displaced ghost, fingering the collection of math books in the solarium or staring absently at the numbers on the television remote until Don wanted to scream.

At least when Amita showed up late in the afternoon, armed with reams of research, Charlie feigned interest in her discoveries long enough for Don to escape. He didn't know how to help his brother. Ever since the fast food illustration the day before, he had been trying to think of a job that didn't need math, himself. He thought he had it once, when he noticed a house painter's van across the street, but then he realized the man had to calculate a bid by determining how much paint he would use, and how many hours he would work. It was all good and well to tell Charlie just to be patient, and the numbers would come back; but what if they didn't? How could someone who was declared a mathematical prodigy at the age of 3 deal with not being able to balance his checkbook at 30?

Don spent most of Thursday away from the house, determined not to do any more damage. He knew he should probably check in with Megan and Colby again, but he dreaded that phone call. So, he stuck close to home, doing three loads of laundry and scouring the apartment as if he expected company. He finally gave up around four and headed to the house, anxious to get a report from Dr. Martin and hoping to hell that Charlie hadn't talked him into letting him fly to Edmonton. He relaxed marginally at everyone's upbeat demeanor; especially when Charlie reported proudly that he had called the airline and been bumped from supervisor to supervisor until he talked someone into refunding his non-refundable ticket. "Maybe I can find something else to teach," he finished somewhat wistfully. "I like to talk." Don, standing at the stove with his father, exchanged a look with Alan and didn't comment.

Amita had spent most of the day with them, although she had just left for campus, and Charlie was definitely more chipper when she was around. Her positive attitude, her certainty that they had all dodged a bullet, was like a balm. He tried to stay awake when she was there, so he was very tired by the time she left. Chopping tomatoes for a salad, Don noticed that he was nodding at the kitchen table. He was just about to suggest to his father that they let him nap for a while before dinner, when the front doorbell chimed. Alan's head whipped around, and Charlie's head jerked up. Don headed for the swinging door into the house proper. "I got it," he assured his father. "You promised Charlie that lasagna several days ago; I wouldn't back away right now if I were you."

Charlie had risen from the table and moved to the counter, to take over the tomatoes, when Don pushed back into the kitchen. "It's the paper boy," he informed his father. "He's collecting for last month. I would have paid him, but I'm living in a cash-free society."

Alan chuckled and wiped his hands on a towel, reaching into his jeans for his wallet. "It's 24.00, I think…"

Don nodded. "Yeah, that's what he said."

Alan fingered through the bills and huffed. "Charlie, I've just got 50s. Can you break one for me?"

"Sure." Charlie set down the knife and the tomato, wiped his hands on his jeans and took out his own wallet. Flipping it open, Don watched him withdraw several 20s, 10s and singles. He stared at the wad of money for a moment and then turned to meet his father, who had moved across the kitchen floor and stopped directly in front of Don. Charlie pushed the entire conglomeration into Alan's hands. "I…don't know how to break a 50," he said softly. "Is this enough?"

That quickly, Don was back to terror. The tableau struck him as one of the saddest things he had ever seen. He was surprised at his father's calm demeanor. "Here, Charlie," Alan started, and he began to count bills into his son's hand. "This is the 50 I'm giving you." He held up two more bills. "There are several ways to do it, but this is the easiest. I have two of your 20s here. Two times 20 is?"

"40," Charlie smiled.

"Good." Alan smiled back and looked at the money in his hand. "I see you have a lot of 1s here, and I need some. Count them with me. We'll start at 41, because we know that we have 40 already."

Charlie looked fascinated, his eyes glued to his father's hands. "41," he said as the first dollar made an appearance. "42," he and Alan said together as another was added to the two 20s Charlie was holding. Don watched in silence as they counted to 47, and then felt himself joining in. "48," they chorused in unison. "49." As the three said "50", Charlie broke into a huge smile.

"That's it!" he crowed happily. "You need 50!"

Alan smiled, and took the two 20s and ten 1s from Charlie, pressing the rest of the money back into his hand. "I never got to teach you that before," he said, then reddened a little and moved toward the front of the house. "That poor boy is still waiting. I'll be right back."

Charlie grinned at Don, and the terror was back to relief. Maybe Charlie could learn about his missing numbers; jumpstart his right hemisphere. Maybe Amita had been right to take a proactive stance from the beginning.

Charlie interrupted his musings, excitedly opening his hands to show Don the money.

"How else?" he asked, and Don's brow furrowed in confusion.

"How else what?"

Charlie almost threw the money at him. "Dad said I could make 50 some other way," he explained impatiently. "Can you show me?"

Don smiled, and looked down at Charlie's hands. He picked out a bill and held it up. "This is a 10, Chuck. All those 1s we just counted make this much. You could have used one 10 with your two 20s."

"And five times 10 is 50, right?"

Don nodded happily, finding it hard to speak. He was 35 years old, standing in a kitchen teaching his 30-year-old brother how to make 50, and life was as sweet as it had ever been. He saw Charlie frown a little then, and his grin broke. "What, Buddy?"

Charlie gestured toward Don's jeans. "I need some help with math, I'm not stupid. You just put my money in your pocket."


	8. Tell Me Why You Love Me

Title: **The Sound of Silence**

Author: FraidyCat

Disclaimer: It is a far, far better (wo)man who owns the Brothers Eppes (et al).

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**Chapter Seven: Tell Me Why You Love Me**

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At this point, Don's presence was probably extraneous, but he hung around the house anyway. As an FBI agent, he always slept with the cell by his bed, but since Alan's early-morning call on Monday, it seemed like a living thing with the power to crush his world, and he slept warily at night, waking often, his heart beating loudly in his ears. He still needed to spend a good portion of the day convincing himself that Charlie was all right; it had nearly killed him to stay away as long as he had on Thursday. He knew he couldn't just sit in the Craftsman and stare at Charlie forever, though. Eventually all the flower beds would be weeded, the koi pond would be cleaned, the lawn would be mowed, and his PTO would be over; he'd have to go back to work. It was a thought he found both welcoming and repulsive. Part of him itched to get back into the sheer _normalcy_ of it, while a larger part protested at the thought of leaving Charlie to his own devices.

He told himself that it wasn't as if he was abandoning Charlie. For one thing, he was doing exceptionally well, physically. His doctor had insisted on a six-month suspension on his driver's license, which Charlie was less than happy about, but that was the worst physical ramification of the stroke. _A freakin' stroke!_ For another, both Amita and his father would be available. Amita carried a light load during this Summer Session, and it was due to end in two weeks anyway. After Charlie had gone to bed Thursday night, Amita informed Don and Alan that she had called Millie and begged off the second set of summer classes; she intended to concentrate on helping Charlie for the rest of the summer.

Even now, at almost noon on Friday, she and Charlie sat at the dining room table with a set of 2nd grade math flashcards; which was another thing Don found completely out of kilter. Two days ago, Charlie could not add 2 plus 2 and was understandably upset about it. Since last night's paper boy incident, though, he was plowing his way through the cards, over and over. The occasional stumble seemed to make him that much more determined. It really shouldn't have surprised Don. After all, his brother's brain may have suffered a short-circuit – but it was still his brother's brain.

Alan was in the kitchen, no doubt working on lunch, and Don was channel surfing through the sports stations, listening to the somewhat bizarre sound of a completely adult Charlie trying to work his way around 7 plus 3. He wondered somewhat idly if maybe they should add some spelling flashcards to the mix. It was about time he learned enough to hold his own at a Scrabble® board. The door to the kitchen swung open and he glanced up, startled to see Megan and Colby passing through.

"Hey!" Don automatically checked his watch and jumped off the couch, headed in their direction. "Don't you guys have a raid, or something?"

Charlie and Amita looked up from the dining room table, and soon Charlie was on his feet as well, grinning like there was no tomorrow. "Colby! Megan, it's great to see you!"

Megan smiled and rounded the table to clutch him in a hug. "We stayed away as long as we could, but enough is enough." She paused while pulling out of the hug long enough to peck him on the cheek. "The hug is from Larry," she said.

Charlie reddened. "Thank God," he said drily, and Colby laughed from behind Megan.

He stuck out a hand. "I'll settle for a handshake, Whiz Kid. You look good, really good!" He winked at Don. "Are you sure your brother didn't make this whole thing up just to get out of working with Garibaldi?"

Charlie laughed and took Colby's hand in his own, squeezing firmly and releasing. Amita had stood behind him, and he draped an arm automatically over her shoulder, drawing her closer. "Believe me, I wish he had, Colby."

Don wedged his way into the conversation, arching an eyebrow. "Isn't it interesting that you show up here, at the kitchen door no less, just in time for lunch?"

Megan laughed and exchanged a look with Colby. "Just a case of good timing. We were hoping to get by today anyway, since _some people_ cannot be bothered to make a simple phone call…"

Don twisted his mouth and Colby took up the narrative. "Just luck of the draw that the bust went sour this close to lunchtime."

Don frowned immediately, narrowing his eyes and looking from one of his team to the other. "Sour? Everybody ok?"

Megan nodded. "Yeah, we're good. Seems Garibaldi's man inside may have been made. When we got to the warehouse, expecting a large shipment from the target, all we found was empty space. Completely. Not even dust."

Colby snorted. "Well, there _was_ that one index finger lying in the middle of the warehouse, next to the dead pig." Amita paled and buried her head in Charlie's shoulder, and Colby apologized profusely. "Aw, geez, I'm sorry Amita. I was just kiddin' – gallows humor."

She peeked up at him. "No finger? No pig?"

Megan smiled gently, after first sparing a glare for Colby. "No, Amita. Granger's just being…Granger." She sighed, and looked again at Don. "Garibaldi is concerned about his man; he missed his last two check-ins."

"Which brings us to our ulterior motive," interrupted Colby. "We brought everything Garibaldi's got from his guy. Transcripts of every check-in." He smiled ingratiatingly at Charlie. "We were hoping to find Amita here – we checked the campus already, and we thought maybe after lunch, the two of you could do one of those magic search algorithims for us, so we could get some idea where to look for this guy."

Megan started speaking before Colby was even finished, seeing Don tense. "We really were hoping Amita could help us, Charlie. You're looking great, but we don't want to compromise your recovery."

"Well, yeah," Colby shrugged. "Goes without saying."

Don looked at Charlie, who was looking back, but he couldn't really read the expression on his face. Charlie looked down at Amita, who smiled, and then he looked at the two visiting agents. "Umm…" he started, obviously at a temporary loss for words.

"Seriously, Whiz Kid, I didn't mean you should do this," Colby said nervously, picking up on a strange vibe in the room. "My day for bad jokes, I guess. I'm sure it'll be at least a couple of weeks before you're back consulting, right?" He smiled hesitantly.

Charlie tried to smile back, and then looked directly at Megan. "You'll find out about this soon enough," he started, looking again at Colby. "Everybody will. And it's not like I have anything to be embarrassed about."

"Of course you don't!" Amita said hotly, rubbing a hand in circles over Charlie's back. Don knew that Charlie was right, on both counts. Megan dated Larry, and Charlie's predicament would soon become common knowledge. And if anything, he should be proud of his recovery, not embarrassed by any temporary consequences! Still, it was his brother's tale to tell; one he would have to repeat several times, no doubt. So Don held his tongue and let his brother handle it.

Charlie looked down at Amita quickly, took a deep breath and lifted his head. "The thing…the thing is," he began, smiling almost apologetically at Megan and Colby, "is that there's been a slight complication to the stroke. The brain is…well, it's a wild card. No-one is prepared to say exactly how long-lasting or extensive my…impairment…will be…."

Colby looked at Don, whose expression was probably intended to be unreadable, but in actuality screamed _"Don't even think about touching my brother"_ so loudly he thought he had missed the last part of Charlie's stumbling explanation. He saw Megan's mouth gape and looked back to Charlie. "What did you say?"

"Arithmetic," Charlie answered sympathetically. He shrugged, looking Colby in the eye. "I said, I can't seem to complete simple mathematical problems right now."

Colby frowned, sure there was a punch line coming. "Well, define simple," he finally said. "I mean, simple for you and simple for me are definitely two different things when it comes to math."

Charlie took a step to the dining room table and picked up one of the addition flash cards. He held it up for Colby to see. He saw Colby's eyes widen as they focused on 6 plus 6. "Amita has been helping me," he continued. "The studies, the doctors, they say I can re-train the part of my brain that wasn't affected by the stroke." He shrugged again. "They just don't say how far."

Megan cleared her throat. "Charlie, I'm sure that even if there was a finite border and timeline, you'd overshoot it." She waited until he looked at her and smiled at him genuinely. "I don't want you to think I don't understand that this particular consequence must be extremely frustrating and not a little frightening for you. But I admire you _so much_. I mean, look at you – already studying!"

Charlie blinked and looked away in embarrassment, but she wasn't ready to let him off the hook yet. "Just don't forget to take care of yourself, Charlie. Don't get so focused on regaining what you've lost that everything else falls to the side. If you never help me balance my checkbook again, I'm okay with that. On the other hand, if you have another stroke and something really serious happens, I'll have to kick your butt."

Don smiled and Amita stifled a giggle against Charlie's shoulder. "What?" Colby asked the room at large. "You think she's kidding? Trust me, she can do it!"

Charlie smiled shyly but seemed to be out of words for the time-being. Amita rose on her toes to kiss him quickly on the cheek and then stepped up to take Colby by the arm and turn him back to the kitchen door he had come through in the first place. "Let's go get the papers," she offered. "Alan's making those incredible turkey sandwiches, but if we bring everything in now, I can get started right after lunch."

Megan turned to follow them through the kitchen, and Don watched Charlie; the quality of his silence was a little disturbing. "You okay?" he asked quietly.

Charlie watched the door swing shut after the trio and sighed. "I don't know," he said, surprising Don a little. He had been expecting the token _'I'm fine'_ that was every male Eppes' favorite two words. He stood and waited, and Charlie looked at him for a moment before he dropped his eyes. "It was the only way I could help people," he whispered. "It was the only thing that made me matter."

Don felt the words in his heart, and opened his mouth to deny them. Before he could speak, the swinging door to the kitchen blew open again and Alan stuck his head through. "Boys," he said, "We seem to have guests for lunch. Would you help me set the table, Don?" He looked quickly at the stack of flashcards on the table and then at Charlie. "Can we move the cards until after lunch, son?"

"Sure," Charlie answered, moving to gather the cards.

"Donnie?" prodded Alan. "I think Colby and Megan have to get back to work; I could use some help in here."

Don nodded and started to brush past Charlie. The sudden motion caused a flashcard to blow off the table, and he leaned to pick it up. As he turned to hand it to his brother, he let his fingers rest for a moment on Charlie's arm. "What you're thinking isn't true," he said in a quiet voice. "We're gonna talk about this later."

Charlie took the card and added it to the stack he was making on the sideboard. "I'm okay," he said in a voice that clearly indicated he wasn't. He turned more fully away from Don. "I need to go get my pills, now. I'll be in soon, okay?"

Alan bustled through the door again, a stack of plates in his hand, hearing the last part of the sentence. He thrust the plates at Don and started to backtrack into the kitchen. "Good idea, son," he said as he was turning. "Don't forget the Aggrenox®!"

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Charlie stood in the bathroom and regarded his image in the mirror. He looked a little tired, he thought, which was disconcerting since he still slept 12 to 16 hours a day. Still, for the most part he looked normal. He could walk down any street in America, and no-one would know.

Strangers would walk right by him, and never realize that a chunk of his soul was missing.

Amita knew. Amita knew, and she was trying so hard to help him get it back. Part of him appreciated that she didn't waste his time with empty platitudes, telling him that he would find something else to fill the space. Most of him appreciated the fact that she was trying to catch the numbers for him because she knew how important they were.

Yet there was a fragment, a tiny sliver of resentment…or was it fear? He had heard all the stories, the ones where she read Charles Eppes' work in high school and came to CalSci partly to study under him. Before, he had been oddly flattered; but the girl she was describing, by the time she got around to telling him those things, was long gone and bore little resemblance to the woman she had become. Now, in unguarded moments, or when he would lie awake in the dark night, he would wonder.

Could she love a man without numbers?

Maybe she was trying so hard to help him because his mind had been all she had ever seen in him. He hoped that wasn't true. Even if it all came back, he did not want that to be true.

He heard the tinkle of her laugh and the timbre of Colby's low voice as they set up her laptop in the solarium, and he leaned his head against the mirror and closed his eyes.

_Tell me_, he thought, a wave of despair washing over him. _Please…tell me why you love me._


	9. Occam's Razor

Title: **The Sound of Silence**

Author: FraidyCat

Disclaimer: It is a far, far better (wo)man who owns the Brothers Eppes (et al).

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**Chapter Nine: Occam's Razor**

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Charlie's enthusiasm for flashcards seemed to wane as Friday wore on. First, Amita thought he was just tired. She had been able to input Colby's data and apply a search algorithim Charlie had written early-on in his consulting gig with the F.B.I. It had been applicable to several cases by now, and he had even applied for a patent. One of his long-range plans had been to package several such universal applications, specific to investigative work, and market them to law enforcement agencies. As Amita set the search for common denominators in motion, she got an idea of her own. Perhaps she and Larry could do that for Charlie. After all, it was his work, and his idea; they would just provide some sweat equity. It might be a way to generate another stream of income for Charlie.

She was careful to leave the program running on her laptop in the solarium, away from the main living area of the house, in which they had been studying. She knew it would be at least a few hours before results were in, and she didn't want to interrupt the time she had planned to spend with Charlie before her evening class. When he had seemed reticent, she had noted the tired furrow of his brow and let it go. He did not have to re-learn everything in the first week; she was more than happy to curl up next to him on the couch and watch one of Alan's old Alfred Hitchcock movies. When he began snoring a few minutes into the film, she had exchanged a grin with Don and decided she was right. He was just tired.

By noon on Saturday, she wasn't so sure.

She had arrived around 10 that morning to find the search completed. She spent a few minutes in the solarium, compiling the results and e-mailing a list of the most likely locations of the missing agent to Colby. With an undercover man down, all bets were off. Not only were Colby and Megan working that day, Don had gone in to help. The brotherhood that existed between agents was stronger than any real or perceived problems in their working relationship with each other. When one of them was in trouble, he could count on the others working night and day to get him out of it.

When she had powered down her laptop and joined Charlie in the dining room, he was poring over his own; researching alternate careers. He looked at her, sitting next to him, almost shyly, and wondered if he could work in landscaping. "Not design, probably," he clarified. "At least not at first. I'd need a lot of math for that, I think. But I could mow lawns and trim hedges right now!"

Amita smiled politely. "Of course you could," she agreed. "You know a lot about flowers, too."

He nodded seriously. "I used to help my Mom in the garden," he explained. "She used to have a great garden."

Amita's smile brightened as her eyebrows arched. "I wish I could have seen it. What you have now – especially around the koi pond – is beautiful. She had even more?"

"Oh, yes," Charlie assured her. "A lot of what you see now was started by Mom. Dad and I did the koi pond, and we add to that every year. Gardening was kind-of a family hobby, I guess."

"Did Don help?"

Charlie grinned. "In a manner of speaking. After he killed several hybrid roses, he agreed to stop playing baseball in the yard."

Amita laughed, and should have let it go at that. Instead, she added a last thought. "Of course, you'll be on medical leave for a while. By the time that's over, you can probably go back to CalSci."

To her utter surprise he frowned and slammed shut the lid of the laptop. "What if I can't?" he growled rather heatedly at the computer. He turned his face toward her but dropped his eyes from hers in the middle of his next sentence. "Is that the only thing that will make you happy?"

Stunned, Amita stammered over her answer. "Wh…what? N-no, Charlie. I thought you wanted….Alan told me he and Don were teaching you about addition, and you were insatiable! That's why I got the flashcards..."

Charlie sighed and reached out to touch the back of her hand where it laid on the table. He abstractly drew "figure 8s" over it with his index finger; even without his numbers, he was all about patterns. "I do want it back," he admitted, finally looking her in the eye, "but I'm beginning to worry about why."

She sat silently and waited for him to go on, holding his gaze. He dropped his eyes to her hand, again. "There's no guarantee about how much I can re-learn. What if I hit a wall at 5th grade, or even college-level…something….what do freshmen study?"

"Depends," she answered automatically. "It can range from algebra to trig to quantum physics."

He looked up again and shrugged. "So if I relearned algebra, could I do my old job?" Amita didn't answer and he smiled sadly. "I thought not. I remember some things, Amita."

"What?" she whispered.

He looked distantly at the wall on the other side of the dining room. "I remember that I was a genius, my whole life. I remember that it made me special, and I remember that it was the _only_ thing that made me special. Now I wonder if I'm really desperate to have the numbers back, or just desperate. Maybe I can't live a normal life, without the accolades and the…groupies."

Amita bit back a sharp retort, stung at being labeled a groupie…if that was what just happened. She forced herself to think of how she would feel if something similar happened to her. She reached out and physically turned his head so that he was facing her again, and then she leaned in and kissed him. It was a kiss full of passion, and hunger, and promise, and when she pulled back they were both breathing a little harder. "Charlie," she finally said, "numbers are not what make you special. _You_ are what make _numbers_ special." He looked suddenly as if he was going to cry, so she hurried on. "If you do not teach again -- if you mow lawns for the rest of your life, you will make that special, too."

He looked away, swallowing hard. "How do you know?" he finally asked, his voice quiet.

"Because I know you," she answered immediately. "Your heart has always been so much bigger than even your genius. You feel everything so deeply."

He glanced quickly back. "But you love me because of my brain," he half-accused.

She started to shake her head, then paused; an action that caused Charlie to pale dramatically. Still, she said what she felt she had to. "Yes, I was attracted to your genius," she admitted. "But that's almost like Colby drooling over a hot flight attendant."

In spite of himself, Charlie smiled. "You may have to explain that a little."

She smiled back. "I'm just saying that as I got to know you, I discovered that there was so much more to you. I love how much you love your family, for instance. I admire and respect your sense of loyalty. Your acerbic wit and humor are definite high-scorers on the _'things I love about Charlie'_ scale." He reddened, and her smiled deepened to dimples. "And I admit it; I love that you have never once forgotten my birthday."

Alan came stomping down the stairs at that moment, carting a full laundry basket, and Charlie stood, after exchanging a final look with Amita. "Thank-you," he said quietly, and then he included his father in the conversation. "I'm pretty tired, today. If I sleep through lunch I'll get something later, okay?"

Alan furrowed his brow, concerned. "Aren't you feeling well? Should I call…"

Charlie held up a hand and interrupted, a trifle impatiently. "No, Dad, I'm just tired. I'm really tired." Alan knew his son wasn't kidding when he headed for the stairs and his bedroom, rather than just lying on the couch.

He waited until he heard Charlie's door close before he shifted the basket on his hip and looked at Amita. "Is everything all right, dear?"

She smiled tremulously, arms wrapped around herself as if she was cold. "I think maybe I've been pushing him too hard," she confessed. "I mean, it hasn't even been a week since the stroke, and last night we started on simple fractions…"

Alan wanted to reassure her – but he also wanted to protect his son. "Perhaps," he finally said kindly. When her face fell, he hurried on. "Or, it could be that he just feels badly about not being able to see Larry get his medal tonight. Or, he could really be tired." He attempted a grin. "It could be all of the above. Been a hell of a week, for all of us."

Amita nodded glumly and startled Alan so badly he nearly dropped the laundry basket. "No shit," she agreed.

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Charlie hesitated for a few minutes, but in the end he finally pressed speed-dial "4". Amita had moved to #1, Don had consequently slipped to #2, Alan was a constant at #3, and #4 was… "Hi, Larry," he smiled, when the physicist answered.

"Charles, dear friend!" the diminutive professor enthused. "I was so pleased to see your name displayed by my caller ID. I have wanted quite desperately to speak with you, but was reluctant to disturb your rest. Be assured, Megan provides frequent updates."

At first happy to hear his old friend's voice, now Charlie frowned. "Has she talked to you since yesterday?"

Confusion was apparent in Larry's voice. "We spoke last night, yes; it has become a habit to say 'good-night' to each other. Why?"

Charlie shrugged, even though Larry couldn't see him, and sighed. "I dunno. It's not like you're not going to find out."

There was a moment of silence, and then Larry mused in response. "Charles," he began, "I am reminded of Occam's Razor."

Charlie snorted into the phone. "And I am reminded how much I miss talking to you, Larry. Look, I just worked my way up to ½ of a whole; you may have to help me out on this."

Larry strayed from his original thought for a moment. "Fractions, dear boy? My goodness; I believe that's 3rd-grade-level work, already!"

"The razor?" Charlie prompted, unwilling to spend any more of his day discussing whole things that were cut into pieces – it hit too close to home.

"Ah. Yes," Larry responded. "Occam's Razor is one of the basic laws of physics; the one by which we measure all others, in fact. In short, it states that the simpler a theory is, the better."

Charlie suddenly became genuinely worried he would never get his reasoning skills back. "I don't understand," he admitted somewhat morosely.

He could hear the smile in Larry's voice. "A dear friend of mine nearly died this week, yet now he lives. My theory is very simple: one does not look a gift horse in the mouth. I treasure our friendship, Charles, and hope that it continues for many, many years. If your grasp upon the numbers is a little less firm, so be it. I desire only your presence in my life."

Tears sprang to the back of Charlie's eyes and he fought to keep them at bay. "Thank-you," he said quietly. "I…I love you too, Larry, and I wanted to congratulate you again on your award. I wish I could be there to see you receive it."

"I hope you don't mind," Larry responded, "but I tweaked the speech a tad. Millie has arranged to have a DVD made, so you and Amita can watch."

"I know," nodded Charlie. "That was really nice of her. How did you change the speech?"

"I added a dedication," answered Larry. "I am now accepting the medal – this award in recognition of teaching in the field of physics – on behalf of the best student I have ever had; a young man who went on to become my best friend, and a fine teacher in his own right."

"Larry…" Charlie was overwhelmed. "Larry, you don't have to do that."

"It is my pleasure, Charles," Larry insisted. "It is an award dealing with physics; and you are my Occam's Razor."


	10. The Sum of Two Parts

Title: **The Sound of Silence**

Author: FraidyCat

Disclaimer: Own them, I do not. Obe Wan Kanobi, I am not. Beseech thee to read, I do.

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**Chapter Ten: The Sum of Two Parts**

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Amita stood at the kitchen window and watched him for a while.

She never grew tired of it. Even though it had been two years since he had frightened her so badly, and the fear had faded, it blossomed anew every time he had a headache. When that headache developed into a full-fledged migraine -- as it did every 16 to 24 weeks -- she was apt to burst into tears and call in reinforcements. Reducing his stress level had helped; the migraines came less often, and that was a relief. Still, it was apparent that Ischemic Cerebrovascular Disease was part of their reality for the long haul. It was living with that knowledge, however, that had enabled so many of the changes in their lives. Health was a fragile thing, and life was not for the faint of heart.

When her eyes had taken in enough to make the rest of her hungry, Amita exited the house to join him at the koi pond. At the bottom of the porch she slipped off her shoes, and sighed as she wiggled her toes in the soft grass. Foot coverings were overrated. She padded silently to the pond. Charlie was so still on the bench, she wondered if he was asleep in the late afternoon sun. If he was, she was still tempted to join him; it had been a busy week, and sitting at the koi pond sleeping sounded like a perfect Friday evening to her. As she grew closer, though, she saw his head move slightly. His long eye lashes blinked against his cheek and she knew he was tracking the koi again. She smiled, and stood behind the bench, placing her hands on his shoulders and beginning a massaging action. "Is the striped one still swimming out of pattern?"

Charlie started slightly but relaxed almost immediately at the sound of her voice. "Yes," he mused. "I'm wondering what variables have contributed to the change."

"Perhaps you didn't have enough data to support your original hypothesis," she suggested. "The butterfly koi is still rather new to the pond, and he's different from the others. They probably all sense that, somehow." She giggled. "Maybe they wait until you're not looking and gang up on him in a koi alley under the pond bridge; he's altering his pattern to avoid that as long as possible."

Charlie smiled and patted the surface of the bench next to him in an invitation. "You could be right," he agreed. Then he modified. "At least about the data-gathering. I should have studied him longer; he is a new species to this ecosystem"

Amita moved to sit next to Charlie and leaned her head on his shoulder. "I vote for some more butterfly koi," she offered, even though she had not been asked. "At least one. Everyone should have a mate if at all possible, don't you think?"

He chuckled and shifted a little on the bench, so that he could drape an arm around her shoulders. "Do we have custody of Dad this week?" he suddenly asked.

Amita closed her eyes, settling into his embrace, and yawned. "Yes," she confirmed at length. "He'll be here tomorrow." She laughed. "I still can't believe you and your brother, but at least Alan feels welcome no matter where he is! Really, two grown men fighting over him like that."

Charlie protested. "We don't fight," he responded defensively. "Besides, Don still owes me a week from when you and I went on vacation." Amita laughed again and Charlie continued his line of thought. "Maybe Dad will come early. The weather is so nice, I thought he and I could go to the nursery and get something for the pond garden."

Amita lazily opened her eyes. "Charlie, there is not one remaining square inch of space out here."

"Yes there is," he insisted, peering around the perimeter of the yard. "I'm just not quite sure where it is." She smiled and he changed the subject, resting his free hand on the slight bulge of her belly. "How much longer?"

She rolled her eyes and slapped ineffectively at his hand. "Charlie, do the math. We're in week 13."

He grinned and moved his hand to brush a curl out of his eye. ""Let's see," he began. "If we assume a 40-week gestation period, that means we still have 27 to go. That would be 189 days; 4,536 hours; 272,160 minutes; 16,329,600 seconds." He smiled smugly. "Approximately."

"Show off," she grinned. "Listen, if you really want to spend time in a nursery tomorrow, we still need to create one here. The paint's been in the garage for almost a month."

Charlie groaned. "I know. It's just so much work!"

His whine turned the last word into two syllables and Amita arched an eyebrow. "I'll remember that when it comes time for labor and delivery."

He leaned to kiss the top of her head. "I have no doubt that you will. Dad and I will get started this weekend. Maybe Donnie can come and help; it's his room we're taking over, after all."

"I hardly think he'll mind," Amita said drily. "He does have a three-bedroom condo now. Besides, we'll put all of his things in the small guest room downstairs. I just want the baby upstairs with us."

"I know," he murmured, changing the subject again. "So how was work?"

"Not bad," she decided. "I gave everybody tests today."

"After you've got them graded, I'll enter them into the computer," he offered.

"Thanks," she smiled. "I was actually kind-of counting on that. How about you? How was work?"

"Good," he shrugged. "Hank sent me into Century City."

"Hmmm?" Amita was getting too comfortable for words.

Luckily, Charlie understood her shortcuts. "He doesn't like to go into L.A. proper; he's always afraid he'll run into Garibaldi and kill him with a weed whacker, so I handled one of his entertainment law contracts. They have a really outstanding atrium in the lobby. Billy usually does it, but he's still on jury duty."

Amita yawned again. "I still can't believe the F.B.I. didn't fire Garibaldi two years ago when your search proved that he knew where Hank was all along."

"It was _your _search," he reminded her. "And frankly, neither can Hank. Can't say Don was all that surprised when Garibaldi found a way to squeak by." He sighed. "It worries me that he has to work with that asshole."

Amita sigh echoed Charlie's. "At least he's up for retirement in another year. And it was _your_ algorithim. Which reminds me..."

"What?"

"Larry said the Baltimore PD put in an order for a full set of the Investigative Aides DVDs, but we need to have some more of the companion workbooks printed. Plus, he said to remind you to talk to Hank about next Thursday."

"Already done," Charlie assured her. "Billy will be back, and Hank said it's no problem. I can do the lecture in the morning and still be mowing lawns by noon. I'll call the printer Monday."

"When's the last time Millie asked you to come back to CalSci?" Amita asked.

Charlie chuckled. "Let's see...probably when we all had dinner at Don's Tuesday."

Amita smiled and sat up. "Just as long as you're ready for a hard sell the second you hit campus on Thursday. I expect her to threaten you with visions of maternity leave and on-campus day care."

"Duly noted," answered her husband. Charlie stretched, then stood and extended a hand to help Amita off the bench. "I like my life the way it is," he shared as they strolled back toward the house. "Working outside; the occasional guest lecture; a wife who's barefoot and pregnant."

Amita snorted and threw a hard hip his way. "I can't believe you said that!"

"Me neither," he chortled, swinging their clasped hands between them. "It only took me 13 weeks to find the perfect opportunity!"

"More like 88 days," she huffed, smiling in spite of herself.

He leaned in to brush her lips with his own. "2,112 hours," he added as he pulled back. "Which is nothing, in the grand scheme of things. After all, we have forever."

She kept smiling, and prayed that it was true; even as she lived with the truth.

Forever would never be enough.

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**The End**

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_A/N: This little tale is dedicated to all the Amita-lovers out there. I decided a while back that the next multi-chapter I wrote, I would not kill, maim or destory her. (You can rest assured that this will not become a habit.) On a related personal note, that turned out to be easier than I thought. A few years ago the man I was dating at the time had a stroke (apparently I'm a carrier, or something). It was the beginning of the end of our relationship, and I wrote Amita in this story the way I wish I had been._


End file.
